What is it about the morning afters? They're always the hardest part of the day to get through - even when they come at unusual times of day. Eleven. Noon. One. Two. Three P.M...
"He's gone." The words are uttered to an empty bedroom, empty save of Fiona herself. Wrapped halfway in a sheet, she sits on the bed staring at the wall as if searching for some latent image - four-dimensional paintings or religious experience a la Shroud of Turin, posited upon paint. "A hundred years, Davydd? How the fuck am I supposed to live without you for a hundred years? God, I'm an idiot."
One might not be able to make an entire meal of caviar, but it's all a matter of what one's used to...
Staring gives way to weeping. A lamp meets its inevitable demise, shattering against the wall, and destruction gives way in turn to action. Nude, she stalks over to the telephone, punching in a number somewhat shakily, to leave a message on Dot's voice mail.
"Hello, Dot? It's Fiona. Look, I'm going to be at Betty's Boobs tonight. I need you to meet me there. I - look, I know I don't ask this usually, but I need you to keep me from doing anything too stupid. I'll be there at eight."
She rings off, and then goes to shower, letting more idiotic tears flow down the drain with the soap and water, one cheek pressed to the cool tiles, the sense of futility gnawing at her insides as a fox at her vitals. Those ancient Greeks knew their tortures.
A few hours later, all trace of tears has been carefully erased, along with all of Fiona's ... Fiona-ness, at least on the surface. She walks into Betty's Boobs as a vision from some music video - leather and lace and silk. Texture, baby - it's all about the texture. A bustier is comprised of burgundy silk, patterned with darker watermark of fleur de lis, cream-coloured lace spilling out to help hide her nipples. No doubt the knickers match, but they're hidden at present in the mini-est of miniskirts - velvet. Black. Four inches, perhaps - definitely well under six. Silk stockings - she can afford the real deal, so why not? The seams aren't crooked, but they are cloched with sparkling tiny mirrored chips. A pair of black leather boots lace up to about an inch above her knees, leaving an expanse of stockinged thighs visible, the light iridescent off the miniscule prisms. Around her neck is a leather dog collar, closed with a d-ring, and her long hair is elegantly piled on top of her head and fastened in place with diamante combs, dangling earrings to match. A black leather jacket - tres punk, tres unfashionable - adds the too-too chic final touch, lips painted a pouting purple and eyes darkened with kohl and smoke-coloured shadow.
It's this that she makes her way to the bar as, this that she eases onto the stool, clutching one hand in the pocket of her jacket with a small scrap of paper, casting a seemingly-detached glance over the club's interior for Dot.
She is definitely into her Pinup Phase. It typically hits women in the flower of their thirties, when liberation meets assurity, and when one has at one's disposal all those qualities one well imagines Betty Grable to have had. Certainly Betty Page. And while Betty Page is tres tragique for cliche (everyone but everyone is doing The Betty), not many can pull off a Betty Grable/Betty Page combo one-two punch extravaganza.
She certainly has both the boobs and the gams to pull it off...
The dress is a stunning red halter dress, designer no doubt. The shoes are the real cherry on the cake of the outfit, red lacquer with titanium 4" spike stilettos. The bodice of the halter dress appears to be painted on, belling out from her waist into a fuller calf-length skirt with red crinoline. Her piercings are covered. She is the picture of demure and devilish glamour.
She's not at the bar, but has already gotten a table and is reapplying the so-so-red lipstick in a mirrored (vintage, natch) compact as she is already being scoped out (she's watching them via the rear-view mirror that the compact provides -- which is also how she sees YOU) and has the first two rounds of stolichnya waiting. Of course.
Her silver compact flashes as she clicks it closed then stashes it away. "Well," she says grandly, kissing the air toward you. "Come here, my darling, and tell me all about it," her Oxford is showing.
"Not much to tell," Fiona answers, as she alters course to move to the table. She picks up one of the Stolichnayas, easing her way into her seat and leaning back and taking a deep breath. "I think you can probably figure it out from what's missing."
What's missing? Other than the fact that Fiona is NOT even remotely known for showing this much skin - Really, she'd probably wear more to go swimming if she could. She's not a prude, she just ... doesn't usually want the attention...
But there's something else missing. One hand has been for some time weighed down by The Rock. And while Davydd's told her to keep it, there's no way she can wear it. Not now. Not for another hundred frigging years, as she'd probably say if it weren't Dot. "Looks like I won't be getting married," she quips lightly, closing her eyes. Not going to cry, dammit. No more tears. She knocks back the vodka with the alacrity of a marathon runner at a water station. "He's got more important things to do."
"Not much to tell, eh. Well, the outfit's saying it all for ya, nice. You have tits! Who'd have thought it," she smirks. "From the sound of your message, I figured you'd need one or two of these," she says, scooting your two glasses of straight-up vodka to you. One plain, one vanil.
But as you say the word, as you imply its other meaning, as you gesture with the rockless hand, everything changes.
You've seen that steely look, that flash of fire. It was once followed by flying feet and fists of mighty punk-judo! Well, the language is at least intact: "That fuck!" And she's twirling her way up, a vision of loveliness and sweetness with the mouth of pure sin. "Where is he? I'm going to kill him..."
"I'm not mad at him, Dot." Fiona picks up the other glass, waving her hand again as she guides her glass to her mouth. "Look - it's not like he's ... taken up with another woman. It's not like with Paul. He wasn't setting me up, and he still does care about me. But ... it doesn't stop me from feeling kinda like Paul all over again. Did I ever tell you, I broke his nose?" She's always been curiously reticent about what exactly happened, beyond the obvious sense of betrayal.
She slides down in her seat, then sits back up, terribly proper for a moment. "So no killing. If you want to write him a nasty letter, I'll be sure and see to it it's delivered, but right now, I just ... I don't want to think about him. I don't want to think about anything. I want to turn my fucking brain off for a night." Her mouth twists, one delicate fingertip lifting to press just underneath her eyelid to catch a tear before it can escape and ruin her makeup. "Oh. And since I know I can be a handful... here."
Reaching into the pocket, she pulls out that scrap of paper and slides it across. With a small, resigned shrug, Fiona looks over at Dot. "I'm going to get smashed tonight, Dot. Drunker than you've seen me. I'm gonna try for liver poisoning, and I - well, we both know how I can get. If I look like I'm getting in over my head and over yours too - call this number, ask for Rhodri. If he's around to get the message, I imagine he'll come help. If he doesn't, eh - that's karma, innit?" Drancy's vocal tones begin to overwhelm Fiona's, though the sad resignation and stoicism in her eyes at the moment is all Fiona. She lifts her glass again. "To ex-fiances. Let 'em get what's coming to 'em."
Her eyes pierce you for a moment as well, as if she'll snarl like she used to when she was pissed at the world and alone and afraid and giving a finger to the world before deciding to spread her legs to it instead. Her perfectly painted nails glitter crimson where her fingers splay against the silk. "Alright," she rolls out. "I won't kill him. But only because I love you. What a shitter," she hisses and sits down.
"Fine, I'll take mine off too, in a symbol of solidarity," she takes off her ring and stows it in her bodice. It's not going anywhere. "Tonight, fuck the fiances. Let's drink, get pissed and hate on them, the rotters. I can't believe it." She throws up her hands in disgust, her blue-black hair glistening with outrage. "I could just ...wring someone's neck." She takes up the bottle of stoli instead and pours a double for herself, tilting her head. "Roh-dree," she pronounces, clearly incorrectly and flickers her gaze up at you, curled lashes and all, "...alright. If you get too much for me," she gives a coy little smile, as if, "...then I'll call him. You know, I had a feeling today was going to be right shit. Sieg's off in fucking Scotland playing a tour in Glasgow, leaving me to everything else, my mother," the planning. "I have half a mind to say 'shove it and stay in Scotland'. Honestly. Men! You know, I'm going to just buy a set of dildos and strap-ons. It's just easier. You get all the cock with none of the fucking attitude."
Dot finally takes a breath and sighs out, reaching out to you with that sisterly way of hers, "No tears, until the water turns to vodka," she says. "Alright then the drinks are on me. And if you're a good little kitty, I'll even spring for dinner and I won't expect you to spread your legs for me...unlike men."
"Don't worry about me too much, okay? Not the first time I've gotten pissed off or upset and gone and gotten drunk." Fiona finishes off her vodka in a long swallow, head tipped back, eyes closed. "I vote we just - kick back, drink our fill, forget about food. If you want, we can go out on the dance floor and dance together and make half the crowd here cream their knickers. I'm going to order something different - you want anything?"
She leans halfway out of her seat, head turned to the side to glance to Dot and then look around for a server - any server will do. "I'll see if I can't find you someone to fuck upstairs, how's about that? That'll get out some of your tension and any hard feelings about Sieg being off in Scotland. Scotland does suck, doesn't it? Men go there and it just eats them up." She stretches, then stands up, placing both hands on the edge of the table, leaning slightly forward. "You're the spotter tonight, Dot. How many men're checking out my ass and trying to figure out if I've got knickers to match?"
Finally, a smile. "I'd love to dance with you, doll... after another drink or two. A cowboy cocksucker, si vous plais," such language! Ah, butterscotch schnapps and liqueur. So it's going to be like that then. "I'm feeling a little peckish for some sin," with a body to match. "I think you should tie me up to the wall upstairs and send them in by the two's," she cackles and digs for a cigarette.
"How about you? Dressed that way... you are dressed to kill from the belle epoch. I love it. I think you should have your own tension release. And a little vengeance to go with it. Your ass? Right now?" Legs crossed just-so, Dot twists about in her seat and grins. "Three... and one's trying to figure out if my breasts are real. As if," she snorts. "Here," she puts out her platinum card, "...have them start a tab. We'll keep it open till they close, wot?" She glances to another group of men at the adjacent booth, suckles on the cigarette then sets it on fire, blowing smoke hearts as she sits back.
"I'm not going to worry about you," Dot remarks, "...you're a strong woman. You know, you have your marshmallowy bits, but I wouldn't fuck wit' ya. I know you can handle yourself," Dot murmurs. "But I'm honored you chose me as your security blanket." She blows a kiss at you. "I love you, you know. You're my mate," she blinks away what was probably almost a tear. "Here's to fucking, and here's to vodka," she downs her own drink and waits for the server...
It takes the server a minute to get around the clinging, cloying patrons, but eventually a young woman shows up, very Betty Boop like, with lingerie and garter belts to boot. "What can I do you for?"
"A Cowboy Cocksucker for the lady," Fiona says it drolly, well aware that neither Dot nor herself look at all the parts they were born into, "and a Manna from Heaven for me. Actually - two of each. My call." She takes out a few bills and passes it over to the server. "I'll tip at least this round, Dot, and then we'll see about keeping you suitably entertained."
She waves the server off again, then sits back down, leaning forward to speak in confiding tones to the other woman. "My tensions can stay charged up. You know I'm not into the entire casual sex thing. Hell, I was convinced I was going to die a virgin - I wouldn't be surprised if you were one of the ones losing money on that bet. But tell me, you going to pay for all our drinks or going to try to get the other patrons to do it?"
Fiona then closes her eyes, leaning forward, elbows on the table and temples between her fingertips. "I ... look, we've been friends for years. Decades. I don't know what's going on, Dot. I never know, but now even more I don't know, I just don't know. You know I adore you, even if we don't live on the same planet most of the time. I need - hell with it, I need a drink, and I need them to put the fucking music on. Bring me a needle and IV."
The server smiles a boop-boop-be-boop sort of smile and sashays back to the bar with her black curls and red garters and a flurry of spiked heels.
"Hey, Venus and Mars, right? You're all the fight and I'm all the love," Dot smirks, leg folding over her other with a flash of titanium heel. She says that like she doesn't believe it. "Well," she sighs a bit and smiles winsomely, "... we've never been the types to take shite off of anyone, why should we start now. Including fiances if it comes to it. I just wanted you to know...you know, bean?"
And lo! The drinks have arrived! Manna from Heaven, one each. Cowboy Cocksuckers to go around. All frothy and smooth and buttery. Betty Boop heads to another table...
Smirking again, Dot winks. "Enough of this depressing shite, let's get pissed," she leans in, turns her head and gives the neighboring table a quick flash. "I think the next round will be on them. And it'll mostly be on me, but if we can con a few drinks out of some horny shites, why not? It's our turn," she coos.
"They can take bets on whether or not what you've got up front is real, and..." Fiona picks up her drink, watching the multicolored layers glow under artificial lighting, wobbling as they're distorted by motion. Her words end as she takes a long swallow, eyes closed - she's not savoring things tonight as much as she might ordinarily. Instead, she's concentrating on getting drunk as quickly as possible, reaching for that stage beyond drunkenness that is summed up by the word : Forget.
"Tell you what," she resumes after a long, thirsty swallow. She leans her chair out a little from the table, crossing her legs and ignoring the slide of velvet as her skirt edges up just a little further. It hasn't got very far to creep. "Why don't we alter that sin plan of yours? Start a sideshow. Contestants have five minutes to get you off. Twenty pounds a try, and if they succeed, they win a prize of your choosing. We could scoop the entire pot - assuming I stay sober enough to make a good carny huckster." She isn't putting much money on /that/ wager.
The word fiance at present no longer exists in Fiona's vocabulary. She does, however, glance over to the neighbouring table, lips pursed in a moue of sulky dissatisfaction for a moment, then a pouting sort of smile which she turns back to Dot. "Why not? At least get someone else to pay, even if ma'am and sir are happy you're getting married. You know, you never said how they reacted to your new chest. And I seem to be seeing the bottom of this drink awfully quickly - better get the pool refilled before I hit bottom."
Dot turns in her seat and crooks her finger to the waitress and then looks to you. "I'll have her bring the Orgy over. It's just easier that way." She tips her head back, the shot going with her, and as she knocks it back, the fingers of her other hand drum against her throat, as if coaxing it down. Setting her glass down, Dot smirks and winks.
And as if by a miracle, four drinks appear on the table. Betty Boop looks to you both and smiles, "These," setting 2 colored martinis down, "... are from the table to the left, two gents who'd like to see you upstairs. These," setting down two more Manna from Heaven, "...is courtesy of Betty Herself, in honor of the former Queen of the Cage. She says the pink vinyl was divine, you should look into that again... anything else?"
"Isn't she fab? I'll pop by and thank her myself in a while. Maybe on her break she can join me in Sense and Sensibility? In the meantime," Dot continues warmly, "...my friend and I would like an orgy..." Sensing your own reaction, Dot leans in and grins, "...it's their cocktail sampler."
Betty Boop turns with a smile and heads to the bar. Betty Herself (of Betty's Boobs, that is) is seen to wave a moment later, and ringing the bell, calls out: "Oh, my dashing darlings, I need men!" Men in PVC, latex and leather appear on the catwalks above from the various locations of Betty's Boobs. "I have two women here who need to be satisfied, my darlings. Come one, and all come..."
Dot squeals with girlish laughter as the production number begins. "It's not just a drink, I should warn," she grins. "There's a whole production number. But don't worry. I'll handle the body shots. As for Ma'am and Sir? Well, they knew about the implants a long while ago. They found out about the Phantasmagoria gig from their horny lord friends. Oh, I did fuck a few lords, to be sure. The one in charge of the new garden schemes? He was right kinky."
"The Orgy?" Before Fiona can do more than begin to ask, it's already too late. She takes consolation in the remains of her Manna, sighing heavily for a moment. That's the trouble with depressants as opposed to euphorics...
Resolutely, she dismisses all emotion save defiance, scowling at the bottom of her glass now denuded of red and gold, setting it aside. The drink has served a purpose she didn't want; it reminds her of the one who introduced her to it. Rhodri is rather red and gold himself. An eyeblink of time is all it takes for her to be distracted, though, by no fewer than four drinks appearing - and then two more. "I'm going to need a liver transplant. Christ. Dot, is drinking these drinks in any way, shape or form a binding contract?" She lifts one of the martinis, then offers a grin to the waitress. "Tell Betty thank you very much, and I'll have to see about reinventing my career as a DJ after all, if the look was as much of a hit as that. You wouldn't have recognized me, Dot."
She foregoes the martini to home in on the Manna, face reddening as she divides her lips onto the edge of the glass as much to forestall the usual squawk of reaction. Orgy? God help her. Once she's taken a long swallow, she mutters, "If I ask you what Sense and Sensibility is beyond a Jane Austen novel, would you tell me or would you insist on having me taken on a tour? Because if it's the latter, I retract the question." God in heaven indeed - though no doubt a certain amount of prayer goes on in here, it's not the purest of the pure. Fiona dismisses how in over her head she is by drinking rather too quickly, rather too much. She has at least three drinks still in front of her still, after all...
She chokes a moment later at the sound of the bell, flashing a /look/ at Dot. "A production number? Damn straight you'll handle the body shots! I'm not drunk enough for that by half, and besides, well - never mind. Maybe once I'm drunker. Give me ten minutes." She nods irresolutely, earrings wobbling as she listens somewhat abstractedly. "How'd they react about the Gory? And you know what they say - once you've had royalty, you never go back. I wouldn't know about kinky, though." The way her mouth twists gives lie to the second, even if the first is gospel enough...
She's not buying it for a moment. Her eyes pop open and she's about to dart out her questions to you when they're interrupted by the sudden appearance of seven men, all large, all beautiful, and all dressed in a variety of fetish gear. There's leather and PVC, of course, then there's another in something more Venetian, including the mask, one with a whip around his waist, another with bindings, and so on. Each one bears a golden tray, and on each golden tray are two drinks, fourteen in all.
Drinks deposited, it looks like one or two may be staying for a spell. Dot is up and out of her chair, her chair soon becoming a man in red PVC. "This is much better," she says downing two drinks in succession. "Come here, you," she says to the other, looping her finger in the waistline of his leather, he's the one wearing a mask, natch. "Your stomach was created to bear me drinks..." She looks across to you. "Unless you'd rather have the honor?"
She smirks, she doesn't wait. "Down boy," Dot rolls out and the masked man sits on the edge of the table and leans back, whispering, "Hello," to you and winking behind the mask as Dot takes a shot from his navel. "Lord, that's amazing vodka. I'll see you in S-and-S later," she blows the masked one a kiss, then spanks her 'chair'. "You, too...but I fancy that you'll fancy something a little more constrictive." She's standing now and receiving a kiss from each one, and then...
With a wave of her hand, she sends them both to you. And one after the other, they kiss your cheeks as well. It's a different world, Drancy, from where you came from...
Why is it that she always seems to end up in trouble? And, of course, the larger and more beautiful the man, as a rule, the deeper the trouble tends to be. It isn't the alcohol alone that's reddening her cheeks, even if it's - so far - more embarrassment than arousal. Her heart is what gets worn upon her sleeve. Her passion is a private thing, caged away from public glance or assessment.
As it must be, considering who she falls in love with, and how intrinsically her sexuality is linked to her heart...
"Don't you try to turn me into the belle of the ball, Dot. It's never been my sort of role, you know that perfectly well." Fiona picks up the other Manna, making the first layer vanish in a fluid haze of red and gold as purple lips pucker around her straw. You're not waiting for her response - the masked man's wink makes the colour go higher in her face and she just offers him a cautious nod in response. "Uh, right. Hi." A salute of her glass and she foregoes the straw. The rest of that drink needs to be in her. Now, in fact. Yes.
How does she ever respond to being loomed over, leaned over? She's always had too much of a liking for the game of hunter and prey, chaser and chased. But here she is, a glimmering, brightly coloured thing in a dark place. Yet all she came here for was the sort of chaser that comes after drinks...
"Dot," Fiona mutters through clenched teeth, smiling as brightly and professionally as the news anchor she once could have been, "I'm going to get you for this." She accepts the kisses as gracefully as she can manage, rising to her feet and -
Well, it's as if she clicks over to another channel, in a way. Drancy can't cope with this. Fiona can't cope with this. Isabel, of the three, is the best able to cope, however much of an act it might be; and you, Dot, have seen her act before when she's had to, at one gymkhana or another, but not in such circumstances such as these. She taps the whip around one man's waist, tugging on it lightly. "So are you a hound or do you use this on hounds? No, don't answer - whatever answer you give me won't be as good as the answers I make up for myself." She reaches for a drink from a tray, leaning over daintily and then straightening to tap a fingertip against the leather-clad man's mask. "So are you a secret? Or just in hiding?"
The look from the one with the whip is priceless. "Come upstairs and find out, sweet pea," he croons out, very English, very from a certain side of London, in fact. Probably originally from the suburbs but has spent time in the south as well. He cocks a grin, "I'll be looking for you..." and with that heads back upstairs. He has work to do after all.
The one in the mask laughs behind the Venetian wonder. "A little bit of both. I am the pleasure that others are hiding, usually from their husbands. Or wives," he notes, his accent very un-English. It is, in fact, French. "Do you have something you are keeping secret?" He leans over with his hand on the back of your chair. "Or something you want to keep secret? I can help with both..."
Dot is sitting across from you, already high on the sauce, and her fingers covering her painted mouth. Oh my god! You little flirt! You go!
The reactions she gets are perhaps expected, but her own reactions are somewhat conflicted, however internalized; they show in her eyes, the conflict shows in her eyes, uncertainty as ever glimmering beneath that brash need to hurl herself at each and every obstacle, each and every challenge, to show, to shout, 'I am not afraid, I am bloody and unbowed' to the world, to her past, to herself.
"Oh, I have secrets," Fiona says lightly, watching the whip-bearer go for a moment as she settles back in her chair. She looks up at the masked man - who was that masked man? She's more than a little bit drunk, and she's getting drunker by the minute. With a drink in her hand, she tips the glass to her lips as if defying him to find them out. "All the most interesting people do, don't they? Tell me," she says it carelessly, with the deliberation of a taunt, "how do you propose to help me?"
Fiona watches from her lower height, curving round in her seat to glance at the hand on the back of her chair, then up at that concealing mask. She drops into French easily, enjoying the languid tones of the language. "I'm a little drunk, of course, but do tell me... Secrets always make me curious, and you remind me of someone..."
She hasn't forgotten you entirely, Dot, but she's clearly losing herself in the maze - even if it's not entirely a maze of your creation. She curls one hand under her chin, eyeing the smorgasbord of drinks still on the table. Decisions, decisions... where to go, once she's finished this drink?
"Anonymity," he says in French, the French of Paris, the center of it, "...anonymity is what I offer. How I can help you? In the anonymity between masked Confessioner and the Unnamed Lady, there is nothing you can say, nothing you can cry out, nothing you can moan but that it will be kept between us. A secret desire of yours, I provide the means to express it without the... messiness of disclosure..."
My my...
Dot is downing another drink and the music is playing. "Perhaps we will see you upstairs," she all but purrs to the man in the mask. "My friend here, first, owes me a dance... are you in ..."
"Sense and Sensibility," he replies in English. "I will see you then..." And he looks to you, Fiona, a stroke of his hand along your hair. "There is freedom in confiding such things to One," he whispers. "Enjoy your night..." as if he expects he shall not, in fact, see you. "And your friend," he grins. "And shall I not have a dance?" he offers to Dot, flirting as he moves away from your chair, danger averted.
"How about on the chaise lounge..."
"With pleasure..." He gesticulates a classical wave, and lastly looks at Fiona as he turns to head upstairs.
A drink is taken at random, without even an examination of its contents. "I," Fiona says loftily, as loftily as if she were untouched by this introduction, "am not very good at anonymity, but perhaps, monsieur, perhaps." She is not so untouched as she pretends to be, for all her bravado, eyes slanting away at the touch to her hair. She wears herself so much upon her own skin, for any in the knowing world to see. Her protection is her prickles - and beyond the prickles, the unwillingness of the world to See her.
"Right, right, a dance. Of course, Dot." Fiona drains half her glass at a go, taking a deep breath as danger moves away from her. She can't breathe properly when she's being menaced, no matter how much she unwillingly enjoys that threat. If only Huw could see her now...
Rising to her feet, Fiona places one palm on the table to steady herself as she looks about at the corpses of dead drinks littering that surface. "Let's finish what we've got before we hit the floor. Or did we already? So what is Sense and Sensibility, anyway? Since all the interesting blokes seem to end up in there."
"Oh, it's a room upstairs, lots of pillows, lots of feathers and fur and velvet, blindfolds, honey, chocolate, other things that drip. It's all about... sense...well...and sensibility," Dot rolls out, not yet slurring, but she's already in that lean-real-close-breathe-out-everything-touchy-feely part of her insobriety. "All about feeling, textures, pleasure. Versus Crime and Punishment, which is more about restriction, whipping, binding, ropes and ties, buckles and swings." So matter-of-fact! Well, for Dot it is a matter of fact, nothing particularly scandalous.
Dot rises with a smile and stamps out her cigarette -- when did she light that? And she twinkles her fingers at you, reaching for your hand. "Let's dance a bit of it off and come back, I think. I need to slow down, princess," she mutters, "I am supposed to be your chaperone, not the other way around!"
"Oh, right. I remember now. Didn't see Crime and Punishment so much, but I got taken on a tour of the other one once - didn't know the names so much." Which brings things right round to Rhodri again, albeit with a faint flush of colour over the bridge of her nose and into her cheeks. She's going to end up looking freckled, for all the colour ending up in her face. "Sometime, Dot, I'm going to ask what would shock you, because I don't think I've seen anything ever do so yet."
Fiona finishes off her drink and sets it down with a resolute thud of glass meeting wood - it's fortunate she's gentler than she used to be, or there'd go a glass into shatters and shards. She takes hold of your hand, grinning a bit ferally, a bit maddened, perhaps. "Oh, come on, let's just dance. It's pretty obvious nothing's going to happen tonight - they're tempting, but that's not my style and we both know it. The world knows it. It'd take more than temptation to bring down my golden hair."
There's almost an air of regret to her as she says it, makes the Rapunzel allegory. Tempted she is, but not tempted enough to walk into a den of wolves without something more than just temptation to back it up. Maybe if she'd been invited into Crime and Punishment - but then she'd have to be stolen to there, wouldn't she? Fiona isn't capable of such tortured reasoning right now, all higher logic pushed into the lake of benzene to drown.
"You slow down," Fiona retorts, "I'm going to speed up..."
Posted by rowan at November 08, 2004 08:56 PM
